


Four Walls

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: If It Ain't Baroque [7]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill, fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7197065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len's opinion of his human, as told after his Sire comes to town.</p><p>[prompt by robininthelabyrinth on tumblr: scritches + coldwave + vampire]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nirejseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/gifts).



> iam so tired rn i can't even begin to say but i had to get at least one more prompt done and since it was coldwave vampires i decided why not add it to this series amirite

The haze wears off twenty-four seconds after Sire flees the scene. Leo has learned to count them as a way to bring himself down.

Before the cops can show up, he's running. He doesn't know exactly where he's going, though he keeps thinking to himself, _Get home. Lie low. Get home. Lie low._

He ends up standing in front of a door that reads  _3A_ in unpolished brass.

Sounds that, somehow, Leo's stuck around long enough to deem  _familiar_ filter through the thin walls: a cat's steady prowling; microwave running; the hum of what seems to be  _The Crow_ movie; and, most importantly, the scritching of a pencil on paper, a heavy heartbeat, and irritated grumbles. With them come the smells of cat fur, cigarette smoke, and all matter of art supplies.

Leo's instincts heave a happy sigh.  _Yes. Home_.

He turns to leave immediately—but the cat's already sensed him, meaning the human's attention is inevitably being directed to the door and the telltale shadows of two feet underneath. Len could be gone before he could even think to look up; he ends up standing there like an idiot instead.

The human opens his door. The cat, for once, hisses and flees, but he stays.

"Shit, Lenny, get in here."

Leo allows himself to be dragged inside the pungent apartment without complaint. Even if he did speak, he's almost certain an old variant of Russian would come out instead. Sire's presence has more than one effect on his faculties.

The human's hand squeezes the back of his neck. Only for a moment though, for the next it's recoiling and the human is practically snarling as he demands, "Fuck, you're warm as me! What happened?"

Leo stares at him, Russian words on the tip of his tongue as he suspected. Something on his face must answer for him, as the human's expression softens into quiet suspicion and—yes, concern.

It is nice to be worried over. Leo's long memory can only recall bare hints of similar instances. Thankfully he has consumed enough to know he won't try to kill this human tonight; he would like to bask in this a while.

"Not talkin', huh? That's a first," the human mumbles. Then, louder, "Alright, come 'ere. Let's get you cleaned up."

There's something about him that is more than simply 'familiar'. Still, Sire's control may have slipped but his influence remains thick enough on Leo's mind that he can't remember what it is. Perhaps, given time, he will.

The human guides him into a small bedroom, then a bath. After a glance at him, he begins to strip the solid black gloves and jacket, soaked in nearly invisible blood, followed by the boots that have undoubtedly been tracking more blood all over the place, and finally the black pants. This is all done in unnerving silence, though Leo is hardly uncomfortable. In fact, he feels his muscles loosening with each zip and rustle of fabric. Yes, the human is very special.

Leo attempts to ask his name. His voice is hoarse from disuse—Sire despises it when his children speak outside of obedient replies—but he manages to murmur something along the lines of a question. Unfortunately, Russian still overpowers English; he merely receives more guarded suspicion.

Yet, for all of that, the human doesn't stop cleaning him. He takes a wet washcloth and wipes the blood on Leo until the water in the sink stops turning red. He is the source of the smokey scent that pervades this place, Leo finds; among it are undertones of the graphite rubbed on his fingers, a constant stream of human blood and something deep and colorful that Leo would gladly experience for however long he has left on this Earth.

That's it. That's what it is.  _Mate_.

But how?

How...because this is  _Mick_. Mick Rory. Pyromaniac. Artist. Ex-con. Friend. Partner.

Len,  _Leonard Snart_ , not Leo Ivanovich, presses his head in his hands. Mick instantly retreats, putting himself near the door. It wouldn't help, but it's as smart a move as he can make.

"Snart?" he says.

Fuck.  _Fuck_.

"Yes," Len rasps.

"Fucking finally. Haven't heard from you in weeks, and now," Mick makes a vague gesture. "What happened to you?"

Instead of answering, Len tosses the black shirt his  _father_ handed him and raids Mick's closet. He grabs one of the stupidest shirts he can find: a long-sleeved grey pajama shirt with the words  _[Namast'ay in Bed](http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1044/5624/products/Namastay_in_bed__27103_1024x1024.jpeg?v=1446494456) _ printed on it in big letters. Buried in the way back, it's positively drenched in Mick's scent. Len and Mick's size difference allows Len to drown in it, which is exactly what he needs right now.

"That's nice an' all, but it doesn't answer my question," Mick says.

Len rips off his boxers—he hates wearing boxers and Lewis fucking knows it—and yanks open the drawer he's claimed in the tiny chest Mick keeps in his closet. He pulls on a pair of underwear and his favorite navy blue skirt, chiffon and pleated. It falls in whispers, swishing at his knees.

He must look ridiculous, but he throws on a pair of Mick's huge boot socks anyway.

" _Lenny_."

He can answer now. "My Sire came to town. That's why I haven't been around."

It's probably on the news by now. Len leads Mick to the TV and switches the input. Sure enough, there's a headline stamped on the screen:  _BRUTAL MASSACRE: CENTRAL ROBBED BLIND_.

Mick's eyebrows furrow. "That's why you never talk about 'im."

Len inclines his head. "He's a weak criminal, but he can control his children. Every time he comes around, things end..." well, "badly."

"He makes you kill." Not a question. Then again, Mick's idiocy is in his impulsivity, not in reading between the lines.

Still, Len replies anyway. "Yes. That's why I'm as warm as you are tonight. He likes to think it'll get me to come crawling back if he makes me take enough."

Mick grunts. "Guess you avoided the Dark Side again, Luke. Well done."

The response is so far from what Len expected that he can't help but stare at him in blatant surprise.

But Mick just shrugs and says, "Y'know that brother I mentioned? He—he's still human, but he went through his own brainwashing. I've learned to see which is him and which is what they made. Not hard to do the same for you."

Despite all that Lewis made him gorge, Len swallows past a dry mouth. "You said your brother's in business."

"Doesn't mean he always was. You need somethin' else? Maybe a hat? I gotta beanie somewhere." the microwave gives a feeble beep. "I'm about to have nachos, myself. Was gonna watch  _The Addams Family_ after the movie."

Len reaches between them and takes his hand. He lets Mick tug him around like a broken train until they're sitting in front of a 90's Addams Family.

Vulcan hops onto Len's lap, already purring. 

"See?" Mick says around his mouthful, "Vulc knows it too."

Len scritches between the cat's ears. Vulcan doesn't hiss or recoil; he keeps purring and purring, just like always.

"Who d'you think I'd be?" Mick asks.

Without missing a beat, Len smirks and replies, "Mama. You got the crazy old hag to a science."

"Fuck you."

That's it. Mick doesn't say another word about Lewis or what happened. He doesn't give more than a few grumbles whenever Len's grip makes his bones grind. They swap stupid jokes and banter all the way to Mick's bed.

Len climbs on top of him as soon as he's asleep, gripping his stupid Netflix and [Chill](http://ih1.redbubble.net/image.110789495.6858/ra,fitted_scoop,x3104,dd2121:8219e99865,front-c,600,650,900,850-bg,f8f8f8.4u1.jpg)t-shirt tightly enough to make a few small tears. He presses his forehead to his heartbeat and breathes, quite literally for the first time in weeks.

Lewis can do all he wants to Len, but he can't touch  _this_. This is Len's, all Len's. He can tear every limb from his body if Lewis interferes; that's what a mate means when it comes to Sires.

The quiet growling that builds in Len's throat causes Mick to stir.

"Len?" Len peers up at his bleary eyes. "Whad iz it?"

This is  _his_.

Len replaces his forehead with a small smile. "Go back to sleep."

Mick mumbles something along the lines of how weird "bat people" are. Len shuts the blinds and buries himself in his sheets.

* * *

 _Lisa (4:04)_  
>>Lenny, where are you?  
>>It's not polite to keep a lady waiting  
>>(4:10) Lenny?

Mick gripes, "Couldja shut that up?"

"Well," Len drawls, "since you asked so nicely."

 _Lenny (4:11)  
_ >>At home. Will be here for a few days.

 _Lisa_   _(4:11)  
_ >>Home?

 _Lenny (4:12)_  
>>Yes.  
>>I'm okay. Call soon.

Mick huffs as Len unceremoniously falls back on top of him. "Don' do that."

"Mick. Couldja shut up?"

" _Fuck_ you."

Yes. Len will stay home today.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
